


all these memories get written in the scars

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Nightmares, Reader-Insert, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 19:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: the reader hasn’t been able to sleep since star court. Robin volunteers to stay the nights - aka some good ole’ nightmare comfort and more of that good ole’ bed sharing :’)





	all these memories get written in the scars

The scariest nightmares are those based on memory. Maybe if you had better memories, less red stains clouding your past, it wouldn’t be as hard to differentiate dream from reality.

It’s been two weeks since Starcourt Mall burned, and you still can’t. The dreams hold you in an iron grip, dragging you through the dark and depositing you at the dawn, fatigued and fractured. They play like a continuous credit roll, jumping from Russian torturer to Mind Flayer to Demogorgon, every horrifying combination and possibility exhibited night after night after night.

Only when you nodded off on a table at an Arby’s and woke screaming your head off that anyone took notice. Steve nearly peed himself when it happened, and Robin knocked a glass of water all over the table, but even with the commotion and the bright lights that were clearly _not_ the underbelly of a secret Russian base, it still took a full thirty seconds for your brain to find its way back to reality.

So, babysitting duty. Or, according to Robin and Steve, sleepovers. You felt childish for needing someone to chase the dark away, but that didn’t stop you from accepting. You were too tired not to try.

* * *

“Tell me about this guy,” Robin said from within the closet, standing up with an old lion stuffed animal in her hands, turning to face you with a grin.

“That’s Lioney.”

“Lion-ey?”

“Lioney.”

“Very original,” she said, setting the stuffed toy down and ducking back in.

“Aren’t you here to keep me from waking the neighborhood? Why are you rummaging?”

“Are you planning on screaming right now?” She asked.

“I could.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” she said, “But live your life.”

You snorted and dropped down onto the bed. Robin gave up her search for what was definitely embarrassing items from your childhood and tugged the closet shut, double-checking that it was closed, as if the Mind Flayer might just pop out.

You couldn’t exactly say it wouldn’t. You’d had that dream three days ago.

Robin moved to her backpack, tugging out a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top.

“Bathroom?” She asked. You jerked your chin to the door beside your dresser, and Robin went in to change. You took advantage of the privacy to get into your own pajamas, tugging back the covers and sliding into the bed.

Had Robin Buckley been sharing your bed under any other circumstances, you might have been nervous. Scratch that: you’d absolutely have been nervous.

But, as much as the thought of her in your bed made your stomach twist, the exhaustion from the past weeks weighed too heavily on your body to care about much.

Once upon a time, Robin was the subject of your dreams. Cheesy shit, like dates at places you’d only seen in movies or kisses over the center console of her beat-up car. Dreams that made you ache with longing.

But those dreams were more unrealistic than the nightmares that ripped you apart. At least those monsters existed, and were dead. There was relief in waking from red-soaked dreams. There was only pain in waking from those drenched in wanting.

Robin emerged from the bathroom a beat after you crawled into bed, long, tan limbs exposed in the shorts and tank. Your pulse leaped, monsters forgotten for the moment.

“What? I got toothpaste on my chin?” She asked. You hadn’t realized you’d been staring, and shook your head.

“Would you tell me if I did?” She asked, arching her brows.

“Nah,” you said, “more fun to let you embarrass yourself.”

She scoffed, and said, “I’m _definitely_ stealing all the blankets.”

One side of her tank top had gotten caught folded up, a sliver of stomach showing when she moved. You almost laughed at the ludicrosity of it. Of course, the one time you managed to get a half-dressed Robin Buckley into your bed was for this. A few night terrors.

She reached over to flick the lamp off, darkness settling like a blanket over the room. The moonlight bleeding through the edges of the curtains illuminated it just enough for you to make out the rough features of Robin beside you.

“Thank you. For doing this,” you said softly, the dark making the quiet seem necessary. Robin shifted beside you, drawing the covers up to her chest and letting out a breath.

“Honestly, I was kind of relieved. I don’t sleep that well anymore, either.”

“You get them, too?”

“I wake up frozen. Like, I don’t have control over my body. And I just have to…watch. Watch it all happen again.”

“Like you’re stuck,” you said. Even with control of your limbs inside the dreams, the things you saw - the things you remembered - haunted you. Followed you around, ringing like cans hanging from the back of a newlywed couple’s car.

“Like I’m stuck,” she agreed.

“You think they’ll ever go away?” You asked, though Robin couldn’t possibly have the answers. You wished she did; you wished you could curl up against her and let her whisper sweet lies until dawn.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I really, really hope so.”

“Fingers crossed,” you said. You couldn’t see her face in the dark, but you could hear the hint of a smile in her voice.

“Fingers crossed,” she said.

* * *

_The needles grew larger every time, their contents becoming more deadly. This time, you sat strapped to a chair, mouth gagged, feet and hands bound, Robin sat in a chair across from you. A faceless man in a uniform lifted the massive needle, flicking it once, and turned to Robin._

_She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t do anything but look at you, holding your gaze even when the needle pricked her neck. She held onto your eyes until the light faded from hers and she slumped, slipping from the chair like putty and smacking the ground. Blood bubbled up beneath her, pooling around her and staining the uniform in a sickly maroon. _

_Only when she lifted her head and met your gaze with dead eyes did you scream._

* * *

It was the hands, soft but steady on your arms, that dragged you out of the base and your sleep. You shot up, gasping for air, searching the room for Robin’s body. Those hands - Robin’s - kept you from tumbling off the bed.

Her arms wound around you and she tugged you against her, chin tucked over your shoulder, head against yours. She pinned your shaking arms to your sides and held tight as the trembling that made your teeth chatter rolled through. It took a long time to detangle the threads of terror and memory from reality, but Robin didn’t loosen her grip.

“You’re alright, you’re okay,” she said, over and over, “it was just a dream. Just a dream. Breathe.” You caught your breath, mirroring the slow intake and outtake of Robin’s until some of the panic had dissipated.

“There you go. You’re good,” she murmured, feather-soft hair brushing your cheeks.

_Alive. She’s alive._

Tears spilled down your cheeks and you turned in Robin’s arms, burying your face in her neck, wrapping your arms around her if only to prove that she was there, that she was _alive_.

“You’re okay,” she said. You pulled back to look at her, fear trickling away, overwhelming relief taking its place.

“I thought you-I saw…I saw you die. I thought-”

Robin shook her head, taking your face between her hands and forcing you to meet her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said, jerking her chin downwards at herself, “See? All good.”

“I didn’t-I saw you-”

“It’s not real,” she said. “None of it’s real.”

“It was real. It was _almost_ real.”

“But it’s _not_.”

“What if it comes back?” You asked, voice small like a child’s. Robin had no more answers than you did; there was, in all honesty, no guaranteeing the Mind Flayer or something like it would come back. After all, Steve and the others thought they’d killed it twice before you and Robin and Scoops Ahoy made their way into the picture. And even then, it had dragged itself back, taking more and more of you and your town each time. A never-ending boomerang that got sharper every time it was thrown back. 

Robin pursed her lips and shifted, sitting against the headboard. You maneuvered yourself beside her, shoulders pressed together. Whether it be the dark or the fear or the isolation, neither of you moved away.

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t know shit. None of us do.”

You drew your knees up to your chest, arms slung loosely around them.

“Sorry if I freaked you out. Waking up to screams can’t be pleasant,” you said, resting your chin on your forearms.

Robin shrugged, “I mean, you did kick me in the shin pretty hard, but I’ll let it slide.”

“I did?” You asked, guilt flaring. Robin smiled lopsidedly and tipped her head back against the headboard.

“Yep,” she said, “But it’s not like I haven’t deal with worse.”

You frowned. Most of her wounds - and yours - had healed by now, but the scars would mar you forever. An image of Robin, blood in the tips of her hair as she hit the cement floor of the base, flickered behind your eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” you said. Her brows knit together and her lips curled up in a reassuring smile.

“Hey. I’m fine.”

“If you weren’t - if something happened to you-”

She rocked into you, pulling your gaze to her face.

“Come on. I'm basically indestructible.”

You made a face, and she continued, “That kick was enough to shatter bone, but..”

“Oh, come on-”

“I’m serious!”

You smiled - the expression was unfamiliar as of late - and shook your head, tipping your head back against the wall.

“Thank you,” you said, “for doing this.”

Robin’s face contorted and you lifted your head.

“It’s my fault you were down there. It’s the least I can do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t _really_ supposed to hire another scooper. But you came in, like, three days in a row asking if we were hiring, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you not coming the next day,” she said, a sad smile tugging on her lips, “so I gave you the job. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be involved in any of this.”

“If you hadn’t given me the job, I would have just gotten one at…Hot Dog On A Stick, or something. Maybe even the shoe place.”

“The _Russian front_ shoe place, you mean?” She asked, arching a brow, the confidence not quite reaching her eyes. You couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m saying, I’d have followed you into that elevator whether I worked with you, or not. I didn’t give a shit about scooping ice cream.”

“Then why?” She asked, though you suspected she already knew the answer; she wanted to hear it. And you wanted - needed - to say it.

You turned halfway to face her, scanning the line of her jaw, the baby hairs and the feather-soft bangs, the pursed pink lips. Her expression shifted, softened, and for the first time, you saw traces of fear in her eyes. Not derived from a nightmare, though, but from proximity.

“I was there for you, dummy.”

“You mean, it wasn’t for the employee discount?”

“Because we _paid_ for all the ice cream we ate?”

She smiled, then, just a little bit, head ducked.

“You didn’t get me into this. I walked right into it. And I’d do it again.”

You cupped her face in your hands, thumbs ghosting over her cheeks. The racing of your heart right then had nothing on the nightmares. They were far away; the only thing that could you now was your heart. And hearts were so, so easily splintered.

“Thank you,” you said softly. Her gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth and back up, lips pulling thin. You weren’t sure who leaned first, but she was kissing you, and you were kissing her back, once, twice, three times, long enough to pluck the breath from your lungs. If the choice was between air and Robin, you’d pick her every time.

“If that’s what it takes,” she murmured against your mouth, “I’ll make sure to drag you into trouble more often.”

You laughed, winding your fingers into her hair and drawing her closer.

“If you get me killed, I _will_ kill you.”

“If I got you killed, I wouldn’t get to kiss you,” she said.

“True,” you said, “very true. Maybe we can skip that part.”

“And go right to the kissing?”

“I like that idea,” you said, and tugged her back to you. And when you finally fell asleep, both your limbs tangled together, head tucked against her chest, there were no nightmares to be found. You were pressed too tightly together for them to find room.


End file.
